“You see, there are three of us.”

He laughed.

“Three!  Let me get it right.  I’ve seen Miss Cartaret.  You are Miss Gwendolen Cartaret.  And the lady I am to see is—?

“My youngest sister, Alice.”

“Now I understand.  I wondered how you managed those four miles.  Tell me about her.”

She began.  She was vivid and terse.  He saw that she made short cuts to the root of the matter.  He showed himself keen and shrewd.  Once or twice he said “I know, I know,” and she checked herself.

“My sister has told you all that.”

“No, she hasn’t.  Nothing like it.  Please go on.”

She went on till he interrupted her.  “How old is she?”

“Just twenty-three.”

“I see.  Yes.”  He looked so keen now that she was frightened.

“Does that make it more dangerous?” she said.

He laughed.  “No.  It makes it less so.  I don’t suppose it’s dangerous at all.  But I can’t tell till I’ve seen her.  I say, you must be tired after that long walk.”

“I’m never tired.”

“That’s good.”

He rang the bell.  The maid appeared.

“Tell Acroyd I want the trap.  And bring tea—­at once.”

“For two, sir?”

“For two.”

Gwenda rose.  “Thanks very much, I must be going.”

“Please stay.  It won’t take five minutes.  Then I can drive you back.”

“I can walk.”

“I know you can.  But—­you see—­” His keenness and shrewdness went from him.  He was almost embarrassed.  “I was going round to see your sister in the morning.  But—­I think I’d rather see her to-night.  And—­” He was improvising freely now—­“I ought, perhaps, to see you after, as you understand the case.  So, if you don’t mind coming back with me—­”

She didn’t mind.  Why should she?

She stayed.  She sat in Rowcliffe’s chair before his fire and drank his tea and ate his hot griddle-cakes (she had a healthy appetite, being young and strong).  She talked to him as if she had known him a long time.  All these things he made her do, and when he talked to her he made her forget what had brought her there; he made her forget Alice and Mary and her father.

When he left her for a moment she got up, restless and eager to be gone.  And when he came back to her she was standing by the open window again, looking at the orchard.

Rowcliffe looked at her, taking in her tallness, her slenderness, the lithe and beautiful line of her body, curved slightly backward as she leaned against the window wall.

Never before and never again, afterwards, never, that was to say, for any other woman, did Rowcliffe feel what he felt then.  Looking back on it (afterward) he could only describe it as a sense of certainty.  It lacked, surprisingly, the element of surprise.

“You like my north-country orchard?” (He was certain that she did.)